Under Fire by the Enemy
Thrills in Night Attack
Reds prove to be poor fighting men
Author's Dramatic Getaway

The ammunition convoy was speeding along the Aranjuez - Madrid road. Ten Russian three ton trucks loaded with American Remington rifles, Russian maxim machine guns and .303 ammunition for both.

I was riding on the first truck, together with two French men and a Bulgarian refugee long resident in France. NO one spoke, and in the bitter cold we crouched down on top of the hard angular cases.

The section of the road we were transversing was well known to the Insurgent bombers and guards covered the important railway junction close by zealously.

A Journey of Fear and Dread

They had repeatedly blown up the railway tracks after each fresh repair job by the Red railwaymen. At any moment we might be ambushed, either from above or below. Then I would probably have to fight - for my life- in a cause with which I had lost all sympathy.

The lure of adventure had called me hither, and the odds against me ever escaping from the adventure were many. I scanned the bleak and black expanse into which the dimmed headlights of the convoy shone feebly.

'Here, Comrade, Have a Drink'

Noting but an opaque wall and the monotonous drumming of the engine. Since the horrible spectacle of the mutilated bodies in the churchyard my nerves were shaky.

Now I dwelled morbidly on the fact that at any moment a withering blast of machine-gun fire might rake the convoy or a mine explode and blow us into eternity. Or- out of the inky sky a winged monster might appear and attack us from above. Or -

Groe, one of the Frenchmen, broke in on my meditations.

'Here, comrade, have a drink.'

He proffered a bottle of cognac, I noticed that his hand was shaking. The hand I stretched forth to meet the bottle wasn't too steady either.

I drank a generous draught, so all the others, but we might as well have drank water for all the stimulus we obtained.

Air Attack on the Convoy

Suddenly the harsh bark of a klaxon and a shrill whistling. The alarm signal. 'Halt.'

The convoy ground to a stop and all lights were switched off.

In a silence and darkness that seemed solid, the hum of powerful aeroplane motors came out of the western sky. We dismounted and retreated a short distance form the explosive cargo on the trucks.

The roar of the 'planes drew nearer until they were directly overhead, but still invisible.

From the direction in which we came a blinding flash cut the darkness, followed by a deafening roar. We dropped flat on the ploughed earth.

A couple of seconds and there came another explosion nearer and more terrifying. A shower of earth and stones flew over our recumbent bodies. No one was seriously hurt.

Glass in Every Truck Shattered

We lay for another couple of minutes until the disappearing hum of the bombers faded away to a thin drone.

Every truck had the glass in its hood windows shattered, and one refused to start. After repeated failures to function, we divided the load amongst the nine remaining trucks and set off for the front.

Daybreak found us not far from Getafe, where the Red Army held a line cutting across the Toledo-Madrid road.

Do not confuse this with your ideas of the World War front. The troops, Spaniard and foreign, were scattered irregularly over the countryside, occupying farmhouses, outhouses, sheds, and shelters of all kinds.

There were often wide gaps ion either side, but no portion of an army will pierce these gaps deep enough through fear of being cut off.

There are also pretences of modern fortifications in the shape of crude barricades of stone and earth. Here and there were concealed machine-gun nests and an odd, very odd, dug out completed the military structure.

Well to the rear were a couple of German 7 millimetre light field pieces. When we drove up with our precious load there was no enthusiasm.

A Dissertation of Food

'Better leave the boxes on the trucks,' said the wise Spanish Commandante. I got his meaning without the aid of an interpreter. I also took in the graceful lines of his Hispano Suizs, and gave it the odds in beating all in the field in the race to Madrid or elsewhere away from this mala guerra.

There was no opposition. I asked the Commandante where we ate. 'Come with me,' he said. Linking his arm with mine he led me to his own billet which was also company headquarters - a small dirty room adjoining an odoriferous goat house. I enjoyed a good meal of beans, meat and fish stewed in olive oil.

Here I must explain that having travelled considerably my tastes in food are catholic, but I have a weakness for olive oil, garlic, macaroni, rice, and I even find the Spanish oddities of octopus or octupi and garden snails savoury tit-bits. But woe to those living in Spain who care not for such food.

Frenchman Who was a Philosopher

I was anxious to proceed to Madrid, but all cars were requisitioned for local service, so I had to wait the Commandant's pleasure - and, believe it or not, I had to wait with a group of French and Poles holding this particular section of the Front.

One of the Frenchmen humorously remarked when I complained of the delay: 'Oh! I shouldn't worry, Comrade. You stay with us and you will get to Madrid fast enough. Wait and see.'

This philosopher had reason to know. He explained that the present rout had started in Toldeo some ten or twelve days ago and was but temporarily hung up. 'We'll be on the move soon,' he promised, scratching himself vigorously.

During the day a shabby-looking shaven brigand allocated to each group their stand-to stations in case of a sudden attack.

Assigned to Outpost Duty

A Moorish battalion covered this section of the Line, so I was most assiduous in selecting a spot that would offer the most safety from direct or enfilading fire. I was much more particular about selecting a safer line of retreat. I was keenly conscious of the inferiority of our command in general - officers and men, armament and tactical. They did not seem to co-ordinate.

There was no mental bond - everything done was singularly amateurish. The few who knew a little of military matters either made a terrific fuss or concealed their knowledge entirely.

At dusk I was assigned to outpost duty. Upon this plateau the wind was cold and penetrating. Wrapped in none too fleecy blankets, their living content gave is the only source of warmth in scratching fits, but this could not be maintained indefinitely. All the troops not on outposts or patrols sheltered in barns and sheds, packed together like sardines.

Wide Spaced Flashes of Fire

There was little sign of life from the enemy. Sporadically up and down their line ran wide-spaced flashes of rifle fire, just to show us, as it were, that they were on the job. The Red troops fired at the flashes, and thus each side had a vague idea of each other's position.

I earnestly prayed that I might get through to Madrid without stopping a bullet or a bayonet. At about 10 o'clock we were relieved, and I went back to the high powered goat hose, where I ate a satisfying meal of raw bacon and bread washed down with wine. Then I lay down on a pile of straw between two Polacks (Poles) and fully attired, soon fell asleep.

'The Moroccans are Upon Us'

I awoke to the shrilling of a whistle. 'Assemblement, assemblement! Vite, vite! The Moroccans are upon us!' we rushed out in the darkness, each group going to their stand to position fully equipped. I reached the small earthwork barricade and lay down behind a well-reinforced parapet of my own construction.

The ground in front was scrubby and strewn with boulders. It would prove a difficult terrain for a sweeping charge, but such was the weakened morale that the red Army tactics were at that time concerned with defence. The others could do the charging.

Along a distance of about five hundred yards a steady stream of fire poured into our lines. It took a couple of minutes before the answering fire checked some of this. Then the Moors dropped to desultory firing.

Company of Recruits Decimated

Was the attack off? Away to the right of our earthwork barricade a group of Milicianos were firing regularly in a long line of flashes. I remembered the low ridge there, or small dyke, that the Company Commander allocated to a 'green' company just arrived from the base. Their firing died down and little was happening on either side.

Five or ten minutes of tense waiting. Then suddenly as if operated by one switch, a dozen blinding searchlights lit up our positions as brightly as by noonday sun. Simultaneously a terrific gust of withering machine-gun fire burst forth in a deafening crash. Sheltered ad temporarily out of danger behind the hillock of earth and rock, I looked over to the strategic ridge. To my utter amazement I saw the defenders of the ridge like chaff literally blown away in the leaden storm.

'I Picked out the North Star and Ran'

The poor 'rookies' had draped themselves over the ridge to get a better firing stance, or for some other reason (there were no survivors to explain), instead of taking advantage of its proper element of shelter.

The line broke and ran, closely followed by the shouting Moors. I ran crouching to a barn two hundred yards away. From one side extended a low adobe wall, part of a yard enclosure. Near a small wooden gate I dropped flat as a torrent of lead whined over me.

I waited for a moment - then dashed through and ran behind the building. Everyone was running wildly. I ran towards the Commandant's Headquarters adjoining the goat-house, but the Hispano Suiza was gone, so had our trucks, and so had the artillery.

Then I picked out the North Star, laid a course Nor' Nor' West and ran.